Independence
by SOUR MILK AMI
Summary: The same night they lost Mary, Sam was snatched from the hospital. Little do they know, hunter Luke Buchannan did the snatching. So when Dean meets Sam Buchannan, whom he suspects of being a demon, but John isn't around to either debunk or confirm his fears, things go to Hell fast. Pun intended. AU, Teen!chesters, eventual Sam/Jess.


**_Title:_** _Independence_ _  
 **Author:** SOUR MILK  
 **Fandom:**_ _Supernatural  
 **Rating:** T for violence, swearing, and Dean's existence  
 **Pairings:** Sam/Jess  
 **AU:** Sammy gets kidnapped by you'll-see-whom right after Mary's death.  
 **Summary:** The same night they lost Mary, Sam was snatched from the hospital. So when Dean meets Sam Buchannan, whom he suspects of being a demon, at school, but John isn't around to debunk or confirm his fears, things go to Hell fast. Pun intended._

 _So, yeah. That's the story so far. This idea came to me while I was screwing around on rinmarugames (yes, the dress-up game site; no shame) and discovered I could make a teen!Dean (ha! That rhymes) throwing a bottle of holy water at a teen!Sam. So this idea came to fruition eventually in this... less-than-masterpiece-but-I-guess-I'm-still-fairly-proud-of-it!_

 _Anyway, disclaimer: I, SOUR MILK, do not own Supernatural; if I did, Sam would get to prove his BA nature much more than he does. And he does at least once or twice an episode already, so think on that for a sec._

 _Without further ado..._

* * *

 **Prologue**  
 **Sam Winchester**

Bright white lights flashed overhead.

Blinded, the man swiped at his forehead as if he could chase away the flashing after-images emblazoned into his eyelids. Immediately, he wrinkled his nose subtly as the rancid stench of sweat, blood, and smoke assaulted his nostrils, followed closely by an equally harsh antiseptic scent straining desperately to conceal the rest of the stinks. He hated hospitals for this very reason. Sure, the cacophony of crying, groaning, and rapid voices was hard to enjoy, especially as the doors swung shut behind him, eliminating any last shreds of peace he might smuggle in from outside, but it was his nose that always betrayed him in the end.

No matter how many evil bastards he ganked, he could never get used to that God-forsaken smell.

Still, the hospital was, for once, a necessary evil. Usually, he was able to simply patch up his own wounds as well as his son's, and even those wounds that logically required hospitalization were usually brushed off with some reluctant down time at the nearest motel. This time, however, he had a completely different reason for being here, and it was absolutely imperative, so he'd have to suck it up.

A cursory glance over his shoulder revealed that his son was obediently hovering outside the doors, fingers fidgeting in his jacket and no doubt gripping his gun for dear life. Not for the first time, he rolled his eyes at Neil's stupidity and impatience, but he'd already learned that not even his masterful discipline techniques would put him in his place, so his father let it be. If he got arrested, there would always be time for explanations and/or jailbreaks, and it wasn't as if they didn't already have Child Services on their tail. Maybe the kid needed to be kicked down a notch. He certainly was self-confident enough already.

Sighing, the hunter loosened his tie and rumpled his shirt. Flipping his chin to tease a few wayward bangs into place and smoothing his locks down with a sweaty palm, he quickened his pace to a frantic sprint until he reached the non-emergency receptionist, who was mercifully free. "Winchesters?" he gasped, supposedly out of breath as he faked a few heaving pants. "Sam, Dean, and John?"

As expected, the pretty redhead who was manning the computer was unsurprised but sympathetic in the face of his "panic", already typing rapidly on her keyboard, no doubt trying to find said Winchesters. "Name, please?" she inquired properly, the polite and gentle tone of her voice about sweet enough to make him puke.

He hadn't expected that, but he didn't let it throw him off-guard (never let anything throw him off guard, _thank you very much_ ), and seamlessly snapped out, "Luke Winchester. Where's my brother?" He would've preferred to use a first name different from his own, but it couldn't be avoided. And it was that stupid receptionist's fault for being overly attentive to details like rules and that crap. Honestly.

First, of course, he had to sign in, and then the woman would give him the room number. What an idiot. It was ludicrously easy to use his regular signature with a "W" substituted for the "B" at the end, and she didn't check its validity or anything; just told him "Room 703," and went back to her work. Keeping up his act, Luke dashed for the elevator, but stopped before the doors had time to open. Instead, he turned on his heel and made a beeline for the stairs. He'd never liked elevators; they were for cripples and slobs, and he was neither of those. Once upon a time, Neil had complained about taking the stairs. Even had the audacity to slip away and board the elevator once when he was on crutches. It hadn't taken long for Luke to show the rebellious young boy that rebelling was pointless and painful. After all, he could be very persuasive when he needed to be. Especially to someone who, as he constantly had to remind the boy, would be wasting away in foster care without his support. Threatening to leave was usually enough to get Neil back into line.

By the time he reached the seventh floor, he was feeling his heart start to speed up, but a run up a few flights of stairs was nothing. Composing himself quickly, he fixed his clothing, then slipped into the hallway and briskly strolled towards room 703, holding himself rather importantly and hoping that would encourage people to leave him alone. After all, speed was important so he could catch the civilians before the real police. The fire that had just burned down their home was clearly not natural; it'd enveloped almost the entire house within seconds of starting, yet his quick eavesdrop on the scene of the wreckage told him there were no accelerants that might cause such a rapid outburst: at least not that the fire department could detect. Not for the first time, he was glad that he'd been passing through at the time; otherwise, he would never have heard about it fast enough to check out the victims himself.

Police intervention would just screw the whole thing up.

Straightening, Luke swept into the proper room with an intentional flourish in the flapping of his suit, looking so self-righteous that he almost found himself gagging at the act. "Mr. Winchester, a word please?" he demanded snidely, trying his best to emulate a rather egregious type of Fed with which he had copious amounts of experience (couldn't a hunter just burn some bones in peace these days?).

Of course, just about the same time the last syllable left his mouth, he became aware of the fact that John Winchester was asleep in a hard plastic chair next to a little boy's bedside ( _'Dean, I suppose,'_ he thought, but it didn't matter too much either way).

Exhaling harshly through his nose, he found himself fervently wishing he hadn't just wasted his breath. He knew for a fact that any real Fed, insufferable or not, wouldn't dare wake victims of smoke inhalation mere hours after the fact at the risk of incurring the nurses' wrath. Which meant this entire trip was a waste, not just his breath. What kind of father sleeps when his son is in the hospital, anyway? Despite himself, he couldn't help but think that these two were rather inconsiderate to sleep through his arrival. Perhaps he could attempt to wake them...?

That was when a sudden wail startled him.

It wasn't particularly loud, especially considering the fact that it was obviously an infant's. He truly despised babies; they had no respect for other people's eardrums. However, this cry was more of a slightly louder than average moan than anything, and both Winchesters stirred but neither awoke.

Quirking an eyebrow, Luke turned to the source of the ruckus and noticed only now a well-worn hospital-issue baby carrier at the eldest Winchester's foot. Nestled within the safety of the schmaltzy teddy-bear print blankets was a bundle of blue and white with a scrunched-up face sticking out. Only then did he recall the final member of the Winchester family, save the charred lump of flesh that was Mary Winchester by now. Sam, he believed was the name. He didn't like that name, though, because it reminded him too much of his own late wife, bless her sulphur-tainted heart (the demon was gone, but he wasn't taking any chances, and Neil could whine all he wanted but his precious Mama had become a monster and all monsters must be exterminated). Plus, he really, _really_ didn't like babies.

So it was with a face twisted in disgust that Luke reluctantly knelt down beside the squirming little bundle and surveyed it contemptuously down the bridge of his long nose. Evidence was scarce, he had no other conscious witnesses, and he supposed the baby might provide a clue or two. As he peered down on it, he could spot two baby-standard blue eyes with surprising tinges of green blinking curiously back up at him. Two cheeks blew up in a sort of pout before flattening again—as flat as they could get with baby fat still accumulated there, at least. Nose wrinkling, Luke reached down to push aside some of the blankets' obscuring folds to get a closer look. Doing so revealed a small name tag on the edge of the blanket, the hastily-scrawled text reading "Samuel Winchester".

Without warning, inky black washed over green-blue, concealing Sam's eyes and replacing them with disctinctive glaring abysses.

Startled, although he'd never admit it, Luke dropped the blankets back over him like they'd suddenly bit back at his clutching hands. Immediately, his mind was racing, going over variables at lightning speed. A demon would most definitely make sense for the murder and arson of the Winchester home, especially one with some super-strong mind mojo. And he'd never heard of the black-eyed bastards infecting _babies_ before, but he supposed there was always a way to sink deeper when it came to demonic possession.

Eyes darting side to side, Luke was endlessly grateful for the Winchesters' slumber, in complete contrast to his earlier annoyance. Civilians were just not worth dealing with when he had to not only give the whole "the truth is out there" spiel but also convince them to relinquish yet another familial bond for the greater good. The morons never seemed to comprehend that, by this point, their precious brother, sister, child, or whatever else was no longer human. Sure, the demon could be exorcised, giving them the outward appearance of having regained their humanity, but it was all a ruse. Contrary to popular belief, a misconception carried even among hunters, you couldn't just exorcise the demon. The only way to truly purge the persistent evil that hovered around their soul after possession was to send said soul on its merry way to Hell along with the demon that started the whole debacle in the first place.

His fingers deftly slid around Sam's tiny frame, and he eased the baby into his arms, pleasantly surprised when he only gurgled happily instead of shrieking as Luke had half-expected. Still, repulsion welled up when Sam nuzzled into the crook of his elbow, and he barely restrained the urge to bring his other elbow down against that fragile little nose and watch the blood and tears well up as the damn thing cried out in pain—

 _No_. For now, the act was that Sam was his darling little baby, so having a bloody nose would just set off warning bells in all the nurses' heads. So he simply pulled Sam closer, careful not to do anything that might set the kid off, and strode out of the room with a confidence he knew would keep people from asking questions.

He took the elevator this time to avoid suspicion ( _'Damn baby, being such a pain,'_ ) and hastened out the door with Sam in tow, ignoring those around him and hoping his supposed rush would clear the way. It did, just as it always did and probably always would, and he was strolling out into the dry air outside before he knew it. By then, Sam seemed to have comprehended that something was off, because he began to wail just as Neil pushed off the wall he'd been leaning on and matched pace, eyes locked incredulously on the mewling baby in his father's arms.

For a few long minutes, neither spoke, Luke too enraged at the mere thought of a demon feigning innocence in such a way and Neil too petrified at the thought of his father's obvious rage. Any sort of angered expression on Luke's face never ended well for those around him, and, despite himself, Neil felt himself begin to worry. Not for himself, of course; he was more than used to it, and he probably deserved whatever he got, anyway. But the little teal-eyed baby whimpering over the careful padding of his sneakers and the cantankerous thumping of his father's heavy boots? That kid sure seemed free of fault.

As another whine escaped the poor boy, he felt his gaze unconsciously shift from his father's snarl to Sam's much smaller face. Immediately, he regretted it, as those huge, glimmering eyes sucked everything out of his soul save pity and regret and guilt and—okay, there was a rusty nail weighing heavily on the very back of his tongue, and he probably shouldn't have swallowed, but he did anyway. Sure enough, he could feel it carve a bloody path down his esophagus, leaving him with the resounding thought, _'Why? Why are you letting this happen to such a poor, innocent soul?'_

It was amazing how easy it was to get himself emotionally involved in a hunt when his father always specifically said monsters, not people.

So, swallowing down his indecision, Neil spoke up. "Sir?" he murmured tentatively, flinching when the only response he got was a heated glare. Still, he knew better than to think he could get away with weaseling out now, even if continuing to talk would also likely result in punishment, so he finished, "If I may ask, sir, why do you have a baby?"

By this point, they'd reached the desolate crumbling lot where they'd parked their innocuous dark green pick-up truck, but Neil soon found himself wishing he'd lagged behind and forced his father to slow down, even if it would've resulted in a lashing for sure. For, as soon as he reached their vehicle, Luke brought a hand across Sam's face so sharply and viciously that the boy immediately shut up, only to continue his screaming tenfold. Wincing sympathetically, Neil bit back a cry of _"Sir!"_ , knowing it would do nothing but make him even angrier. Still, he stretched out his hand as if to pull little Sam out of danger even though he knew deep down that he'd never have the guts to intervene.

Sneering at the tear-filled eyes that stared pleadingly back up at him, Luke reached into the glove compartment and pulled out a flask of holy water, flicking it open and splashing it all over Sam's scrunched-up face. His reaction was immediate, and a loud screech filled the air as he squirmed frantically in Luke's iron grip, flesh sizzling audibly and smoke rising from his skin. A gasp rose from Neil's throat even as he placed a hand over his mouth to try to stifle it. "A demon?" he breathed.

Muttering something insulting under his breath, Luke didn't bother to dignify that with an audible answer. Instead, he tugged a rolled-up towel from its place pressed into the back of the glove compartment and threw it onto the cement under his feet, revealing a devil's trap painted on it. Dropping the demon into it carelessly, unaffected by its pitiful puppy-dog eyes, he poured the rest of the holy water over it, relishing in its pained screams. He didn't enjoy the pain of humans, but it was amusing to see monsters squirm. Besides, it would do his worthless son good to see some suffering now and again.

Waiting for the holy water to simmer down, its effects fading, Luke turned to glare at Neil, smirking inwardly when the boy snapped to attention instantly, going rigid. "You exorcise it, then we're lopping its head off," he snapped demandingly, gesturing offhandedly to the cramped backseat where they both knew lay their stash of weapons, silver and otherwise.

Predictably, Neil sucked in a breath and started up at him, apparently shocked by this turn of events despite his father's insistence on him exorcising nearly every demon they came across. His eyes darted between the sobbing demon and his father's glare several times before resting doubtfully on Sam. "U-um—" he stammered, horror crossing his face.

His only warning was one quick footstep before Luke's fist clipped the back of his skull, even the glancing blow more than enough to send him reeling and stumbling to his knees. Dignity fled rather quickly, and Neil yelped in surprise, flinching as his father scoffed, no doubt at how pathetic he knew he looked. "Just _do_ it," came the bark of a command, and he hastily pushed himself to his feet and stood over the devil's trap and its crying occupant. Steeling himself, he got right to work in the face of his father's fury, knowing this was the only way to spare himself and the child unnecessary pain. Better the poor soul die quickly than suffer.

Still, unbidden tears began to well up as he chanted under his breath, _"Exorcizamus te, omnis immundus spiritus, omnis satanica potestas..."_

At first, the demon had all the standard reactions, seizing and wailing and, eventually, hissing as half-transparent mirages flickered in and out of existence in a split second around it. Once again, Sam's blue-green eyes were obscured by black as he screamed in pain, and Neil stumbled over his _"Humiliare sub potenti"_ despite himself. Praying to God that his father hadn't heard and knowing the ramifications of screwing up an exorcism (he could never forget after the first and last time he'd failed to banish a demon in a timely fashion), Neil picked up the pace a bit, looking anywhere but at Sam's face.

When he finally belted out _"Benedictus deus. Gloria patri,"_ he sagged in relief that he hadn't made any further mistakes, but quickly tensed again when he noticed a distinct lack of sulphuric smoke pouring out of Sam's mouth. Although still crying, he was now motionless in the devil's trap, and his eyes were just as black as ever—right up until they faded back to blue-green once again, not leaving even a trace of black outside his dilated pupils.

Heart pounding fast ( _'No, no, no, he's gonna be mad, he's gonna be so mad!'_ ), Neil swallowed thickly and unhinged his jaw again, letting words spew out once more. This time, the exorcism was about five times as fast, but he prided himself in having a steady voice, and it was telling to how many times he'd practiced that he never stumbled over words once. Still, it was a similar story. Sam showed no irregularities until the very end, his difference marked only by the utter lack of spewing smoke.

Suddenly, Neil's mouth was very dry.

Before he had time to explain—to swear that he hadn't screwed it up, really, he was sure of it—two heavy footsteps plodded slowly up behind him before, for the second time in the past ten minutes, the back of his skull made out with his father's knuckles. Grunting quietly in pain, Neil collapsed to the ground, and it was all he could do not to land directly on Sam's writhing form. "You _stupid, worthless, sunuva—!"_ A furious roar cut off Luke's sentence as he hurled a booted foot mercilessly into Neil's back, knocking him off of unsteady limbs. "Can't even do a simple damn exorcism right! Well, _fine_ , then! _I'll_ do it, you no-good ingrate!"

Kicking his son out of the way, Luke made good of that promise and recited the exorcism from front to end flawlessly, glaring at the demon all the way. "See ya," he snorted as he wound down to the ritual's conclusion, watching cruelly as Sam thrashed in front of him and waiting patiently for the smoke to billow out.

But, just like with Neil's exorcisms, Sam remained fully there, the black flickering out of his eyes after only a moment's notice. The tears streaming down his face had long since drenched some of the disheveled blankets he was swaddled in, and he fought to free himself from the once-comforting tug of fabric instinctively.

Silence.

Neil froze on the ground, not daring to risk defying any unspoken orders by trying to stand yet terrified that this made him too convenient of a target for his father to take his frustration out on. Sam's sobs eventually quieted to sniffles and hiccups as his tender throat tore from overuse and he could no longer muster up the strength to scream. Luke was looming over them both, wide eyes fixated intensely on Sam's small form that lay on the concrete at his toes.

"Well, I'll be damned."

The first time he said it, his voice was quiet and incredulous, hardly believing itself what his eyes were seeing. Neil felt a bit of the tension sap out of his shoulders at the way his father's voice sounded less angry and more awed, as if he was in the presence of an angel, not a demon and his useless son.

"Well, I'll be _damned!"_

Neil jumped at the unexpected and rather hearty exclamation, surprised by the sheer amusement in his father's voice. Somehow, it sounded perfectly pleased yet also sickly, as it generally did with his father, and almost crude. _Unhinged:_ that was the word he was looking for. Father sounded _unhinged_.

For, having untangled himself from the wads of blankets, Sam had then proceeded to effortlessly crawl out of the devil's trap, not even flinching as he crossed the space where there should've been an invisible wall.

Neil remained lying limp, unwilling to risk movement just yet even though the anger seemed to have left his father. He'd long since learned that his father's emotions weren't always what they seemed. Whip him once: shame on him. Whip him twice...

After a carefully-counted five minutes or so, his father's voice boomed once again, inflections light and the usual clipped tone missing. "Get off the frickin' ground, Neil. We've got work to do."

At the first sign that it was allowed and encouraged (read: demanded), Neil scrambled to his feet, turning to face Luke to find the man was carrying Sam casually and almost wonderingly, a huge grin on his face.

"Do you know what we're looking at, son?" Luke asked, uncharacteristically calm.

Fairly sure that it was a trick question, Neil racked his mind but was unable to come up with an acceptable answer. Once upon a time, he might've used sarcasm to mask his own uncertainty, but that was before Mama's death and Papa's transformation into the broken husk of a man he saw before him: not Papa; Father. So he settled on a quiet, somewhat squeaky, "Sir?"

Smiling at having stumped his son, Luke answered, "Son, we..." He paused for a moment to hold Sam closer, forcing Neil's eyes to lock onto the reddening cheek and tear-stained face of the newest addition to the family.

"...are looking at a demon incarnate."

Grinning, he stared hungrily down at Sam's tears like you stare at the best hunk of meat at a barbeque—when it's just been plopped onto your plate.

"And I have plenty of questions to ask to Samuel Buchannan."

Dumping Sam in Neil's arms without another word, Luke sauntered off to the driver's side of the truck, knowing without the order that Neil would follow and bring the demon with him. Sure enough, as he leaned into the worn leather seat and fished the keys out from his pocket, Neil silently slid into the passenger's seat beside him, eyes fixed on Sam and expression unreadable.

"You excited?" was all Luke could ask, because he was certainly excited; he was giddy as a schoolgirl.

Neil swallowed thickly, staring down at a face that was finally relaxing into an exhausted, painful sleep. He thought of nights spent awake, eyes staring fearfully into the darkness because Father just came home drunk again. He thought of how brutal he'd seen Father be to demons; thought about the happy families he'd seen on his first day of third grade and remembered once being one of those happy families once upon a time.

And Neil decided, suddenly and recklessly but with a passion so relentless he doubted even Father could talk him down, that Samuel Winchester would not grow up as Samuel Buchannan, beaten and abused and convinced he was worthless. Sam wasn't like him; wasn't as useless as he was, because he simply hadn't had the chance to become useless yet. And, no matter what Father said, Mama (who was always Mama, never Mother) had certainly seemed human that last night before Papa killed her for being "tainted" and became Father. So maybe Sam was human, too; maybe Father was wrong about this, too. Those blue-green eyes sure seemed human enough.

"Yeah," he muttered sincerely, a smile gracing his face as he stroked Sam's hair and thought to himself that "Big Brother Neil" had a nice ring to it. "I'm excited."

 **To Be Continued**


End file.
